INTRODUCING Mrs. WENHAM GARDNER
A very distinguished client was engaging the attention of Mr. Dowling, Senior, of Messrs. Dowling, Spence & Company, auctioneers and estate agents, whose offices were situated in Waterloo Place, Pall Mall. Mr. Dowling was a fussy little man of between fifty and sixty years, who spent most of his time playing golf, and who, although he studiously contrived to ignore the fact, had long since lost touch with the details of his business. Consequently, in the absence of Mr. Dowling, Junior, who had developed a marked partiality for a certain bar in the locality, Tavernake was hastily summoned to the rescue from another part of the building, by a small boy violently out of breath.
“Never see the governor in such a fuss,” the latter declared, confidentially, “She's asking no end of questions and he don't know a thing.”
“Who is the lady?” Tavernake asked, on the way downstairs.
“Didn't hear her name,” the boy replied. “She's all right, though, I can tell you—a regular slap-up beauty. Such a motor-car, too! Flowers and tables and all sorts of things inside. By Jove, won't the governor tear his hair if she goes before you get there!”
Tavernake quickened his steps and in a few moments knocked at the door of the private office and entered.
His chief welcomed him with a gesture of relief. The distinguished client of the firm, whose attention he was endeavoring to engage, had glanced toward the newcomer, at his first appearance, with an air of somewhat bored unconcern. Her eyes, however, did not immediately leave his face. On the contrary, from the moment of his entrance she watched him steadfastly. Tavernake, stolid, unruffled, at that time without comprehension, approached the desk.
“This is—er—Mr. Tavernake, our manager,” Mr. Dowling announced, obsequiously. “In the absence of my son, he is in charge of the letting department. I have no doubt that he will be able to suggest something suitable. Tavernake,” he continued, “this lady,”—he glanced at a card in front of him—“Mrs. Wenham Gardner of New York, is looking for a town house, and has been kind enough to favor us with an inquiry.”
Tavernake made no immediate reply. Mr. Dowling was shortsighted, and in any case it would never have occurred to him to associate nervousness, or any form of emotion, with his responsible manager. The beautiful lady leaned back in her chair. Her lips were parted in a slight but very curious smile, her fingers supported her cheek, her eyelids were contracted as she looked into his face. Tavernake felt that their recognition was mutual. Once more he was back again in the tragic atmosphere of that chemist's shop, with Beatrice, half fainting, in his arms, the beautiful lady turned to stone. It was an odd tableau, that, so vividly imprinted upon his memory that it was there before him at this very moment. There was mystery in this woman's eyes, mystery and something else.
“I don't seem to have come across anything down here which—er—particularly attracts Mrs.—Mrs. Wenham Gardner,” Mr. Dowling went on, taking up a little sheaf of papers from the desk. “I thought, perhaps, that the Bryanston Square house might have suited, but it seems that it is too small, far too small. Mrs. Gardner is used to entertaining, and has explained to me that she has a great many friends always coming and going from the other side of the water. She requires, apparently, twelve bedrooms, besides servants' quarters.”
“Your list is scarcely up to date, sir,” Tavernake reminded him. “If the rent is of no particular object, there is Grantham House.”
Mr. Dowling's face was suddenly illuminated.
“Grantham House!” he exclaimed. “Precisely! Now I declare that it had absolutely slipped my memory for the moment—only for the moment, mind—that we have just had placed upon our books one of the most desirable mansions in the west end of London. A most valued client, too, one whom we are most anxious to oblige. Dear, dear me! It is very fortunate—very fortunate indeed that I happened to think of it, especially as it seems that no one had had the sense to place it upon my list. Tavernake, get the plans at once and show them to—er—to Mrs. Gardner.”
Tavernake crossed the room in silence, opened a drawer, and returned with a stiff roll of papers, which he spread carefully out in front of this unexpected client. She spoke then for the first time since he had entered the room. Her voice was low and marvelously sweet. There was very little of the American accent about it, but something in the intonation, especially toward the end of her sentences, was just a trifle un-English.
“Where is this Grantham House?” she inquired.
“Within a stone's throw of Grosvenor Square,” Tavernake answered, briskly. “It is really one of the most central spots in the west end. If you will allow me!”
For the next few minutes he was very fluent indeed. With pencil in hand, he explained the plans, dwelt on the advantages of the location, and from the very reserve of his praise created an impression that the house he was describing was the one absolutely perfect domicile in the whole of London.
“Can I look over the place?” she asked, when he had finished.
“By all means,” Mr. Dowling declared, “by all means. I was on the point of suggesting it. It will be by far the most satisfactory proceeding. You will not be disappointed, my dear madam, I can assure you.”
“I should like to do so, if I may, without delay,” she said.
“There is no opportunity like the present,” Mr. Dowling replied. “If you will permit me,” he added, rising, “it will give me the greatest pleasure to escort you personally. My engagements for the rest of the day happen to be unimportant. Tavernake, let me have the keys of the rooms that are locked up. The caretaker, of course, is there in possession.”
The beautiful visitor rose to her feet, and even that slight movement was accomplished with a grace unlike anything which Tavernake had ever seen before.
“I could not think of troubling you so far, Mr. Dowling,” she protested. “It is not in the least necessary for you to come yourself. Your manager can, perhaps, spare me a few minutes. He seems to be so thoroughly posted in all the details,” she added, apologetically, as she noticed the cloud on Mr. Dowling's brow.
“Just as you like, of course,” he declared. “Mr. Tavernake can go, by all means. Now I come to think of it, it certainly would be inconvenient for me to be away from the office for more than a few minutes. Mr. Tavernake has all the details at his fingers' ends, and I only hope, Mrs. Gardner, that he will be able to persuade you to take the house. Our client,” he added, with a bow, “would, I am sure, be delighted to hear that we had secured for him so distinguished a tenant.”
She smiled at him, a delightful mixture of graciousness and condescension.
“You are very good,” she answered. “The house sounds rather large for me but it depends so much upon circumstances. If you are ready, Mr.—”
“Tavernake,” he told her.
“Mr. Tavernake,” she continued, “my car is waiting outside and we might go on at once.”
He bowed and held open the door for her, an office which he performed a little awkwardly. Mr. Dowling himself escorted her out on to the pavement. Tavernake stopped behind to get his hat, and passing out a moment afterwards, would have seated himself in front beside the chauffeur but that she held the door of the car open and beckoned to him.
“Will you come inside, please?” she insisted. “There are one or two questions which I might ask you as we go along. Please direct the chauffeur.”
He obeyed without a word; the car glided off. As they swung round the first corner, she leaned forward from among the cushions of her seat and looked at him. Then Tavernake was conscious of new things. As though by inspiration, he knew that her visit to the office of Messrs. Dowling, Spence & Company had been no chance one.
She remembered him, remembered him